A Day in the Life or A Life in a Day
by Changhenge
Summary: Chryed. A summer night brings forth some mundane happy fluff and smut.


**A Day in the Life/A Life in a Day**

**AKA Therapy (pt1).**

** Indie, in her infinite wisdom, requested a therapy fic (ie fic _as_ therapy rather than fic _of_ therapy) of everyday mundane happy loving sex. I have attempted to oblige, and I hope it passes muster with both her and with anyone who needs and/or wants it. It is set in the summer so may be a bit AUish, or possibly could be next summer. Whatever works for you.  
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**And yes, I know it isn't _Nightwatchman_, sorrysorrysorrysorry but I am writing that right now I _swear_.  
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**Reviews are always appreciated x**

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><p>This is their life now.<p>

Days pass as days do, in mundanities and trivialities, the quotidian dramas of two lives lived in imperfect harmony.

Mornings are never the best. The combination of one offensively cheery _morning-sunshine-how-do-like-your-eggs-in-the-morning _and one half asleep grumpy _don't-talk-to me-until-I-have-drunk-my-coffee-and-do-you-always-have-to-sing _was never going to be completely smooth sailing. And so of course it is in the morning that the bin bag breaks and trails rubbish all over the kitchen floor that Christian had just cleaned. Or that Syed burns his tongue gulping down obscenely hot coffee. Or that Christian burns the toast and sets off the ear-piercing squeal of the smoke alarm. Or that they realise that they are both out of clean underwear and argue for the next hour over cereal and showers and ironing shirts about whose turn it was to do the laundry.

But yet, there are other mornings, when Syed woke not with the unpleasant blare of radio in his ear, or the rather less unpleasant smell of coffee wafting over from the shelf by the bed, but by the infinitely more pleasurable sensation of a wet hot mouth enveloping what would usually be a fairly half-hearted morning erection. Those were pretty good mornings, because when there was the rough scrape of Christian's not-yet-shaven cheeks against his thighs, and the broad swipes of Christian's always generous tongue over the head of his cock, well that was pretty much guaranteed to send his head reeling and his body shaking almost embarrassingly quickly. And get him out of bed faster than the spiel of any annoying breakfast radio presenter or a swig of coffee so strong the spoon practically stands up in it.

There are other mornings too when he wakes to hear the steady thump of water from the shower and suddenly all he can think of is the water streaming down over Christian's taut smooth skin, rivulets along the arc of his muscles, droplets nestlings in his crotch, and before he has the chance to remember that he isn't a morning person, _definitely_ isn't a morning person, Syed is stripped and in the shower too, pushing a surprisingly pliant Christian against the wall, his hands grasping at the wet body in front of him, gripping him in his fist and licking at the curve of his lips. Yeah, that's not the worst kind of morning either.

Yet, even in those mornings when it is less, _yes right there/more/please/oh fuck yes_, and more, _where the hell did you put my keys/maybe you should be more organised/maybe you should fuck off_, even then, always then, there is a kiss before they left and a murmured _love you_ that kept a warm feeling curling inside them both as they parted company to head to work.

Now it is the two of them working separately, differently, stretching out other people's muscles, pummelling other people's flesh, using their bodies to help other people master their own. Once, while waiting for Roxy to come back from the bar, Christian had thought of how strangely well their jobs had worked out, the two of them working to similar effects in their own individual ways, at how their work complemented each other, each filling the gaps that the other required. And then he wondered, with the benefit of several beers inside him, at whether this was some kind of great metaphor or something for their whole lives. He had grinned to himself and planned to tell Sy all about it. He'd like it, Christian was sure. But the next morning, when the alcohol lifted, he struggled the find the thoughts that had seemed so vivid before and so merely shrugged to himself and didn't bother to say anything.

They both enjoy their work, which is something that Christian thinks they should never take for granted. Maybe it's the legacy of years spent in random brain-numbing jobs, the kind that he could cope with only when hungover or half-cut, with the kind of bosses that made _Ian _seem reasonable and approachable. But the sheer fact that he is doing something he likes, is _good _at, and all without some irritating jobsworth peering over his shoulder, well this is definitely a Good Thing. Of course there are, well, less good moments. But if sometimes Christian has to suppress a laboured groan as it starts tipping it down five minutes into their 10km run, or stop himself from rolling his eyes when _another _client seems to expect 1 hour a week with him to counter the 167 other hours spent sitting on his arse, and then blames him for the lack of progress. Or if sometimes Syed has to work hard to counter the automatic turn of his stomach when he sees the sight of some of his less…_fragrant_…clients, or if the strong scent of the massage oils threatens to turn the slight twinge in his temples into a full-blown migraine, well isn't that what phones were made for? Fingers slipping into pockets to surreptitiously text complaints or moans to the one other person who understands best of all. And then minutes later, the buzz of vibration that sends a Pavlovian response directly to their faces, dragging their lips into quickly hidden smiles even before they get the chance to read the message of condolence or consolation or simply the row of typed kisses that they both pretend to be too mature to write, yet somehow end up with a surprising number sitting in their inboxes, and their sent items (and their saved items too but that is something that they definitely don't mention).

They talk about work often when they meet for lunch. Which is most days, except Fridays. Christian had once suggested they could grab something to eat after Mosque but a single glance at the confusion of concern and fear and doubt that twisted across Syed's face in an instant made him quickly backtrack and he never mentioned it again. It didn't matter. It really didn't. They met nearly every other day, in the Vic a lot, or the caff. Or grabbing some _lahmacun _from the Turkish place on the High Street to eat in the park if it was sunny, lazing around on the grass, warm sunshine flickering across Syed's eyes as he smiled, the heat warming Christian's arms, and his heart. They would compare notes on who had the worst clients, the busiest day, the most moronic conversations. They leant eagerly towards each other and discussed the problems of people stretching out cold muscles, of the trials of pulled hamstrings or twisted ankles. They rolled eyes in mutual sympathy at the poor sods who spent all day sitting in poorly designed chairs, crouched awkwardly over computer keyboards and then came running to Syed and Christian to sort themselves out.

Sometimes too, when they had longer breaks, they ate at home. They talked there too, lazily, easily, like people who knew that there would always be tomorrow to talk some more. They spoke of the future, of plans to work together someday, to combine their talents into something really special. Not now, not soon, not until they had more income, a more regular client base. But it was nice, to talk and to dream, to plot out plans and draw up tables and diagrams on the edges of newspaper. For now though, they stuck to promoting each other at work, Christian telling everyone that he'd really recommend them making regular visits to a proper masseur if they wanted to avoid injury and handing over Syed's card. He told them who Sy was of course, and with a few, the ones who raised their eyebrows and made suggestive remarks with a flicker of their lips, he grinned back and agreed about the power of his _healing hands_. _But seriously_, he'd add, _he's brilliant at it, he really is_, and his genuine tone sent more than a few clients in his direction.

Back at home, Christian often had the chance to experience those brilliant hands first hand, a lucky recipient of the fact that exhortations from Syed's childhood to Do Things Properly Or Not At All had produced a keen determination. Determination that frequently lead to new techniques to try out, new oils to test, new theories to examine, with Christian as his (usually) willing guinea pig. And if sometimes the new 'invigorating oils' proved to be only too effective, or the new techniques turned out to have side-effects that were definitely not work-suitable, well then Christian finally found one thing to praise within Zainab's child-rearing philosophy. Not that Zainab was exactly the first thought in his mind as he lay, naked and greased, whimpering under the forceful tenderness inflicted by Syed's knowledgeable fingers pushing into his _trapezius_, dragging along his _latissimus dorsi_, digging hard into his _gluteus maximus_. And when gentle lips asked soft-voiced questions into the pulsating vein in his throat, well then he didn't think at all. Some weeks they got through a lot of changes of sheets. Some weeks Christian would wink at Dot and try to hide his laugh at the combination of horror, dismay and near panic that fluttered uncensored in her eyes. Some weeks Syed would half mumble apologies at her for things he was not sorry for but still felt it wasn't right to share, and promptly spend half the evening on the internet checking out the costs of cheap washing machines.

Not that Christian would ever let him get away with that for too long, him sitting on the sofa with laptop perched carefully on folded legs. Not without peering over his shoulder and making comments, leaning his arms across and clicking away at links until Syed would concede defeat and push the computer away. It had surprised Syed at first, when he realised that Christian would never normally disturb his reading, that books and magazines alike were treated with something akin to deference, as his usual exuberance was turned down to a seven or eight at most, with merely a gentle ruffle of hair as he passed or soft massage of Syed's ankles as they rested on his lap. But computers and websites were a different matter, occupying as they did the 'pointless diversion of attention away from _me_' part of Christian's brain. Syed had once suggested mildly that perhaps this, well, _antipathy_ really wasn't too strong a word, to technology was because Christian hadn't grown up with computers as a kid, but when this lead to a heavily insulted storming out and ensuing full out day-long sulk about ageism and the like, Syed had soon decided to bite his lip. And definitely to put off buying that Kindle for a little while longer. And if it meant he would restrict his website wanderings and contacts with Asif and Shoaib and Karim, that small group of online figures that he was beginning to call real friends, to the nights when Christian was hanging out with Roxy, well, maybe that was for the best too in a way. They needed to have separate parts to their lives sometimes. _He_ needed that sometimes, he thought, to have a place that was _his_, that he could tell Christian bits about, funny bits, like about Karim's disastrous first date with Mark or painful bits too, like about Asif coming home one day and finding his belongings trashed and a fierce faced father holding a porn magazine above his head, but he needed a place too where he had people with whom he could talk about Christian and his family and not have to explain.

Besides, Syed had to admit that temporary internet interference was really not the greatest hardship in the world, not when they had their evenings together. Like maybe lazing on the sofa at home while Christian yelled advice at the contestants on dodgy reality TV and while Syed shook his head is dismay at the advice given on all the property development shows. Or maybe making out like the horny teenager he hadn't let himself be, slow and languid, no purpose in mind except the sheer enjoyment of the slide of lips on lips, the feel of hands edging up shirts, idly stroking bare skin with barely-there touches to send shivers down spines. Or going out 'on dates', as Christian would describe it, _don't want you getting jealous of Karim and that lot getting to go out on dates_, he muttered once, while pulling out suitable clothing from their wardrobe to dress them both, and Syed had had to drag his t-shirt quickly up and over his head to hide his smile. Dinners in restaurants where they talked politely and calmly over the table, Syed trying his best not to react to the feel of Christian's foot, released from the confines of its shoe and stroking slowly instead around his crotch. Drinks in bars where they stood against the wall, leaning across to murmur jokes and stories in each other's ears, their eyes alight with the flashes of fun and friendship and lust sparking across the small gap, before an elbow would nudge into a side and a voice carefully announce that they were _getting rather tired and quite fancied an early night. If that was alright, of course_. And it was, it really really was.

But if they felt lucky then, leaving the bar and heading back home, to _their_ home, together, well it was nothing compared to later. Later, whether they stripped quickly out of smart shirts and tight jeans, or dawdled lazily out of their loose t-shirts and baggy sweats, whether they brushed teeth in companionable silence at the sink or forwent any such niceties in their rush to the bed. Later, it was them, the two of them alone, in their king-sized bed and life felt so fucking good.

They'd had bits of it all. Before (and they just both said Before. They both knew what they meant). They'd had the lunchtime quickie and the frantic handjobs that started before the door had even properly shut. They'd had the lingering showers and the pressing and sliding of water-slicked bodies into mouths, into hands, against the hard cold tiles, against warm welcoming bodies. They'd had the private looks and the secret smiles. And they still did. There was still the sudden rush of shivers over flesh and burn of desire taking over bodies. But now there was also…there was also this. The quiet hush of the night when bodies could find solace in bodies that were now redeemed from the purgatory of their once trapped and lonely existance. They could memorise reactions and sounds and feels. They could hunt out new places, new sensations, new explorations of want and need. In the night they could be complete.

In the winter they huddled under covers, mouths laughing freely inside the cocoon of warmth, bodies finding heat, sharing heat, creating heat.

And then in the summer.

Well then there is this.

Tonight, a most un-English of nights, this summer night filled with usually oppressive temperatures, where the heat drips in, uninvited, to squat in corners and creases and linger all night long. The wide open window begging for relief but so far cruelly denied, no gasps of breath or welcome breeze granted here. On this night, they lie, naked skin sticking clammily to the thin sheet above, trapping their legs in an origami of cotton. Their breaths are shallow, warm and silent as they add to the muggy haze above. The small shaky fan resting perilously on the shelf by the bed whirrs nosily and ineffectually, ushering the occasional moment of respite against the relentless indolent heat.

They had been lying like this earlier until the sound of a loud crack and bang had filtered through the window and into their dozing minds, knocking them out of their restless half-sleep.

"What was that?" Syed's voice was croaky and tired, and muffled in part by his arm draped heavily across his face.

"Either a car backfiring or someone getting shot." Christian rolled onto his side and peered through the shadowy light as Syed lowered his arm onto the bed to wrestle with the uncooperative sheet.

"Given that we live in Walford, I'll go for the latter." The corners of Sy's mouth turned lazily upwards, hints of white flashing between his lips. A twist of the fan saw a lock of dark hair rise and fall into half-shut eyes, and Christian watched in silent fascination before extending out a long lean finger to sweep it back behind Syed's ear, lightly stroking the soft damp skin of his face as he did so.

"My beautiful boy." It was barely above a whisper, a hushed murmur into the air, near hidden beneath the artificial hum of the fan. But it was clear enough for Syed's eyes to open fully, pupils wide and black, for his cheeks to flush with a hint of pink, and for a tip of a tongue to poke out and lick quickly across his parched lips. And there it was, Christian thought, that flip of his stomach, that pull and drag in his chest. The longing and the need and the ache that had taken up residence within him for so long that he sometimes nearly forgot what life felt like without.

He rolled over to lie half over Syed, running his hands through the sleep-tangled mess of curls, pressing eager lips against another soft pair, a kiss that deepened, a tongue diving into the warmth of a sluggish mouth, bringing a burst of life into the languid supple flesh below. Christian pulled off, grinning, his head diving back down to linger in Syed's neck, the small hollow at the base of his throat.

"Christian, really? So hot..." Syed's plaintive plea was undercut by the rub of rough as his husky vocal chords mumbled out their response. It hit Christian hard, the rawness and the soft sibilant words sending a shock straight to his cock, like a shot of whiskey simultaneously burning and smoothing his throat.

"Yeah, you are." He laughed gently into the tanned skin, sucking lightly on the pulse of blood as it fluttered beneath his mouth. "And gorgeous, and lovely, and beautiful. So fucking beautiful." Kisses followed down Syed's chest, a sharp tug on an erect nipple, a swirl of tongue over the line of his ribs. Licks and caresses that left lines of fresh dampness amongst the sticky sweat, lines that ran goosebumped when the fan turned towards them, before trembling back to smoothness.

"It's too hot?" He tried again, but Christian heard the inflected rise at the end, the crack in his voice as his statement found itself wavering, and he saw the shiver, the arch of his back from the bed, the scrape of his fingers against the sheets.

"I'll cool you down," he promised and in reply felt the brief shudder of laughter run through Syed's body and into Christian's mouth.

"Well, that would be a first," Syed muttered, a brief aside before his eyes fluttered happily shut and words started to lose their meaning. All he had now was a mass of sensations mixed with thoughts. Christian's mouth pressing sloppy kisses along his stomach, sucking quickly and fleetingly over the head of his cock, his tongue swirling around his balls, and then, with steady hands pushing Syed's legs down on each side, his tongue licking behind and licking inside. Syed tipped his head far back into the pillow and heard the air around him fill with the sound of low desperate keens. It occurred to him only moments later that they came from his mouth. Christian's hands were strong, his fingers pressing into Syed's thighs with force and tenderness, pinning him into the mattress. He could feel a small pool of sweat forming on his back, his nails pressing indents into his palm as he gripped harder, the more Christian's tongue soothed and lapped and explored. _I must look a fucking mess_, he thought for one fleeting second, but there was not a single part of him that cared.

There was nothing like this. Nothing like the desperate feel of being completely at his mercy, lying aching and begging for friction, for his touch. Every nerve trembling, every muscle strained and needy. And if the best thing was feeling it, the second best might well be watching it. Syed craned his head back up to see the delicious muscles of Christian's shoulder and back drawn taut, the crown of his head just visible between Syed's thighs, and he shivered with a longing and an appetite that even now sometimes scared him with its intensity. He wanted it all. He wanted to devour Christian, to dig his teeth far into that smooth flesh, to taste the sweetness and the sharp tang of his body. He wanted to be devoured, his wrists pinned down, his body plundered and ravaged. He heard Christian hum, low down in his throat, the vibrations rocking through his body, the knowledge that Christian liked doing this, loved it even, and it was all too much. His throat felt too small, too tight. He couldn't swallow, he couldn't breath. His lungs were empty, gasping desperately for breath. It was too much, it was not enough. He wanted Christian to stop and for it to never end. He wanted Christian's hands all over him, gripping his cock, his aching, throbbing cock. He wanted Christian to suck him, to take him in completely, to come down his throat and watch him swallow it down. He wanted to come on his face, come all over that perfect beautiful face, those cheekbones, those fucking lips. He wanted to see Christian's tongue lean out and lick the edges of his lips. He wanted it all.

"Christian," he whispered, and he barely recognised his own voice, shaking and heavy with want.

Christian stopped, and moved his head upwards to meet Syed's eyes.

"Y'alright?" he asked, not bothering to hide the smirk of pride and of joy that coated his face.

"I want you inside me."

The hot air began to tighten around Christian's neck.

"Ask nicely then," he purred, a slow finger trailing up over the body beneath him, scratching lightly on sensitised skin.

"_Please_."

"Please what?"

"Make love to me Christian. Please."

Syed voice was low, husky and licentious, and Christian felt the world grow darker and heavier. He sat back and let his eyes traipse over the sight in front of him. Syed looked a mess. A beautiful, wanton, obscene, filthy, debauched, perfect mess. His legs were spread-eagled, his back still arched, his neck angled and showing the glorious line of muscle that curved up from his shoulder. The dark rough hairs on his chest, his stomach, his crotch and his thighs were clinging tightly to his skin in sweat-soaked clumps. His bed-tousled hair lay frantic and dishevelled against the creased cotton of the pillowcase, small tendrils curling and sticking to his forehead. His eyes, lust-blown and heavy lidded, were too dark even to see any flecks of gold, while his lips lay open slightly, panting, torn skin peeling where his teeth had dug too deep. He was fucked out and so damn fuckable. It was almost impossible to believe that he was real. _There should be paintings of him_, Christian thought, _huge fucking oil paintings, taking up walls of galleries, people staring in amazement at this display of sensual perfection, of my licentious angel_._ But he's here and he's real. He's so fucking real and he's mine_.

"Oh my baby, my perfect baby," and Christian dragged his finger over the poor torn flesh of his swollen lips, swallowing hard when Syed sucked it in, his lips a perfect pout. Christian's cock throbbed. He swallowed again.

Generous lube soaked fingers toyed gently and slowly on already wet skin. _It's because of the heat_, he whispered to himself as he pushed slowly inside. It was because of the heat that he lingered with one finger, watching intently as Syed squirmed on the sheets. It was because of the heat that he only gradually added another, unhurriedly curling them round until Syed gulped and gasped and shuddered. It was because of the heat that he slowed the careful deliberate thrusting of his fingers until Syed's thighs were shaking with tension, his stomach was strained, his knuckles were white, his lips pressed so tightly against themselves that they almost disappeared. Surely it was because of the heat that when Christian finally, gradually, let himself enter, edging in so so slowly, he felt the world start to close in around them until all there was them, was a bed and two men.

He could feel the pressure of ankles digging into his back, wordlessly encouraging for more but he made himself hold back, taking his time to focus on every expression that flickered over Syed's face, every tremble displayed on his body, every silent word and unvoiced utterance that chimed clear and distinct from the dusky wide-eyed gaze staring intently at him. All he could feel was the two of them, the slide and thrust of his hard smooth flesh inside tight enveloping heat, nothing between them, skin on skin, body inside body, every movement sending a shock, a shiver, a thousand sparks of electricity that flashed behind their eyes and burnt paths into flesh.

Syed was often loud in bed. Christian not so secretly adored it. The desperate pleas, the forceful demands, the incoherent babbles of lust and love, he remembered them all, thought about them at odd points in the day and it never failed to make him pause, half-hard and grinning. But not tonight, not in the velvet darkness of this summer night. Tonight, Syed's body spoke in volumes for the only man permitted to read their words. Tonight, his hands shouted their desire, his movements purred their contentment, his eyes spun silent speeches of love and Christian could barely breath. Tonight beneath the steady buzz of the fan and the random cries of the night, tiny mewls, faint whimpers and panting gasps were the only accompaniment to the sound of their bodies straining within and around each other.

Until, as Christian came with erratic gasps and heavy pulsating thrusts, he felt Syed's thighs tighten and clench around him, gripping as he shuddered. It was then that the silence was finally lifted, with breathy incantations of Christian's name, fervently whispered, as if it was the secret word to all unanswered questions. And as he saw Syed's eyes burn clear, and as he heard his words murmur true, Christian begged every deity that he had never believed in and every ounce of karma that he had never accrued, that he would never be without this sight.

They slumped down onto the bed. It was too hot to lie too close, but somehow Syed's head found itself resting on Christian's chest, listening to the steady _thump-thump _as it pumped tirelessly away. Their legs somehow found themselves entwined in each other, their fingers drawing circles over sticky sweaty skin. The sheet clung to them and they didn't bother to move.

"Love you," Christian said softly into a small tendril of hair that tickled his nose and he felt the curve of Syed's lips in reply, the nudge of a cheek pressing deeper into his chest.

"Love you too." The words were slurred with tiredness but yet still rang clear.

They fell asleep, bodies twisted together under the weak fan-assisted breeze.

They slept and they sleep on now, through the sultry night and the hints of rising dawn.

They sleep on and the world keeps on turning.

Another second, another minute, another hour, another day.

This is their life and they love it.


End file.
